


the joy of living on one thrill a day.

by Sokudoningyou



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon (Anime), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Let's see how many other fandoms I can reference, Sherlock BBC Kink Meme, Sherlock John and Lestrade walk into the Tokyo Dome..., What do you mean it's not butter!?, Yes I crossed Sailormoon with Sherlock and got away with it, not crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:53:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sokudoningyou/pseuds/Sokudoningyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written on the fly, for a prompt on the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme.  I'd actually been thinking about doing it for a while, and the stars (oh, I am horrible) just happened to align this time around.  Write a Sherlock/SM crossover and not have it be crack?  Oh hell yes was I accepting that challenge.</p><p>Basically a fic detailing the encounter of one Doctor John Hamish Watson with Sailor V, several months before meeting Sherlock, and a later encounter with Sailor Venus and the rest of the sailor soldiers in Tokyo.  Also an exercise in being geeky, as I could not resist tossing in some subtle references to other fandoms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the joy of living on one thrill a day.

The building was on fire, and it wasn't his fault. No, it really wasn't, and John would maintain that argument if it came to court time.

All he had wanted was a cup of coffee.  


* * *

  


John had been back for a week; a strangely muted week, where the colours were bland and the sounds were dull. When he had lain on the sand in Afghanistan, he had remembered London to be a brighter, vibrant place, a veritable wonderland of freedom. The desert, in comparison, had alternated between blistering daytime and freezing night, with drab colours and sand that ground between his molars constantly. There were spiders as big as his goddamn head, you pissed into a hole in the ground if necessary, and there was blood engrained into his knuckles at the end of most days.

Being relieved of duty had been the worst nightmare of his life. Returning to London had been less the joyful return he had expected, ruined as it had been by a leg that refused to stop hurting, and a scar shaped like an ink blot butterfly on his shoulder. Nothing was the same. Nothing felt right. Everything was boring.

The coffee had been an excuse to get out of the bedsit. How was he to know it would nearly kill him?

  


Everything had been perfectly normal, too; the day had been depressingly, crushingly boring. The barista had a pretty smile and gorgeous eyes, both of which turned sad and pitying when she saw his cane and obvious limp. He almost left the coffee right where she'd set it out of anger at her pity; instead, he sucked it up, gave her a smile (which she returned with a glance at his twitching hand), and left with his hideously expensive coffee in hand.

Seeing that she had swirled the shape of a flag on top in the foam, he took a petty delight in destroying it. He took to his task with gusto (because why do something if you aren't going to do it well?), sitting in one of the twisted wire contraptions they kept out front. At least, he presumed it was a chair; it was up against what resembled a table, along with three other Escher-esque shapes. John had no idea why every new pretentious coffee shop that opened seemed to raid the modern art museum, but then he also couldn't figure out why people preferred over-brewed coffee that cost more than a plane ticket; he was running out of options for a cheap cup of mud.

It was right around halfway through his drink when he heard the screaming begin; a quieter keening squeal that finally hit its pitch as a true glass shattering howl. He dropped the cup, not even noticing his bum leg as he ran back inside, feeling the adrenaline hit him like a shot to the heart. The slightest bit of guilt, too; someone was frightened, and he was excited?

What he saw behind the counter, however....

"Oh, fuck me."

He had attained the rank of Captain in his service for Queen and country. No one would call John Watson a coward after they had seen some of the firefights he had walked away from, working on his fellow soldiers even as shrapnel scraped his cheek. It was just not in his nature to run away.

This might be the first time.

No amount of training could prepare a man, who was otherwise rational, steadfast, and perfectly sound of mind, for what he saw. He wasn't sure his imagination could have even begun to imagine the thing standing behind the counter, holding the barista in its arms, both of them glowing like stars fallen to Earth. He wasn't sure it was even looking at him, as its head (or what he presumed was its head, as it was the highest point on its body) was completely blank. Multiple arms, like some hallucinogenic Shiva, were wrapped around the barista several times, a fleshy cocoon.

After taking in the situation, John felt his pulse rachet up again. Incredibly, he began to smile; turning, he grabbed one of the chairs now vacant (the former occupant also a former victim, apparently, and sprawled on the floor), breaking a leg off by the expedience of wrenching it off. He hefted it experimentally, grinning fiercely as the demented Shiva dropped the barista and fully turned towards him. He knew he couldn't even begin to help the people on the floor until the creature was out of the picture. "Oh, yeah. Come get some, you freakish piece of nature." He stepped back to pull out his phone (Harry's gift to him, all extra buttons and features he didn't need) and quickly dialed 999; the creature began to wave its multiple arms at him, sliding forward across the floor.

He heard someone on the other end of the phone pick up, but all he could do was shout "The Shrike's Coffee and Cafe!" before he was dropping to the floor, an unholy tentacled demon flying over his head. The phone and chair leg both slid sideways across the floor as he quickly crabwalked backward, heading for the employee doors he had spotted behind the counter. The monster howled at him, back arching like a cat, arms whipping the air; he got to his feet and ran.

The counter was littered with bodies of workers fallen behind it; as he slid across and landed, he almost stepped on two of them. He grabbed a bottle at random, turned, and threw it; the creature howled again as he hit in the "face" and kept running for the door.

As he opened it, he felt something soft and squishy slam into his back, propelling him through the air. He barely managed to turn his face in time to keep from kissing brick; instead, he smacked his temple, and, dazed, slid to the ground.

He could hear sirens echoing down the alley as he lay there, head throbbing. He was pretty sure blood was trickling down his cheek; he clumsily wiped at it as he propped himself up. There was smoke rising from the roof of the coffee house, flames just visible through the back windows. Why was there fire? Had the creature started it?

Soft arms wrapped around his waist, lifting him clear off the ground. He blinked, seeing double; the creature's "face" now had a pair of insect eyes, black and shiny and oval, as well as a smile that was disturbingly normal. Both sets of faces merged slowly as John groaned.

And then it got worse as the mouth opened, and it actually spoke. "You fought well for a weak human," it gargled at him. "Your energy will be excellent; our Queen will be most pleased with me!"

"You mean you don't want the twenty quid in my wallet?" he slurred, making an abortive motion back towards his pocket. John Watson was a brave man, but he was also sometimes lacking a bit in common sense; making fun of the thing that was about to kill him ranked up there with the last time he had done it. Which had been about three years ago, if he recalled correctly.

The creature hissed at him, tightening its arms. John felt strange(r); it was if his head was trying to float away from his body. He rolled his eyes down to see himself glowing, just as the barista had. It turned his skin an unhealthy shade of green; for some inexplicable reason, that was when his temper reared its head again.

Not quite literally; he did, after all, had blood still trickling down his face. Instead, he reached out to jab the creature in the eyes, wincing only slightly at the sensation of both enveloping his fingers. The creature screamed, yanking its head back, and dropping him post haste to land in an undignified heap again, right on his arse. "You...how dare you!?" it screamed, holding its hands up to its bleeding eyes. Green blood, he noted; maybe it was a chlorophyl monster. A chlorofiend, even. Yeah, he might have a slight head injury all right.

"I dare, because you just killed an entire coffee shop full of innocent people!" John's legs felt like overcooked spaghetti as he levered himself upright against the brick. For the first time since he'd received it, he wished he had his cane; it would have been an effective weapon to bludgeon the thing with.

"That's right!"

"Ye--wait, what?"

Both of them looked up at an old fire escape hanging above John's head. John was now convinced he had suffered irreparable brain damage, because there was no way outside of a cheap American porno he would imagine who he was seeing.

"Who" was a girl, who couldn't have been anymore than twelve or thirteen judging by the shape of her face (still slightly chubby from baby fat). She was dressed in a sexualized parody of a sailor costume: he could, unfortunately, see up her skirt from his position beneath her, though she was thankfully wearing some sort of bloomer underneath. And heels. On a fire escape.

She leapt down -- a good ten metres! In bloody two centimetre heels! -- and landed between John and the monster, who was once again a faceless creature with an arm problem. From behind, all John could see was hair, blonde hair; it fell past her waist, tied with a red ribbon. She glanced over her shoulder at him, flashing him a smile and, incredibly, the V sign (at least, it looked like it; he was still so dazed, she could have been flipping him off for all he knew).

A crescent shaped weapon appeared in her hand once she turned back. "I was having a great day today; I got to see the wax museum, and for once, Artemis wasn't nagging me. But then you had to appear!" She pointed a finger at the monster as it reared back, silently menacing; John marveled at her poise as she shifted her foot, adjusting her stance. "I won't forgive you for ruining this day; Codename: Sailor V!"

The mouth re-appeared on the monster, twisted now into a scowl. "Sailor V! You've been a thorn in our queen's side; but I, Zenwan, will kill you with pleasure."

"Like hell." John stumbled forward a step, determined to protect the girl, only to stop with a foot literally in the air as a white cat dropped in front of him. He stumbled backward, too tired to even wince as his back hit the bricks again.

Sailor V leapt up, aiming a kick at the monster's face. It reared back, snapping its arms out at her. John could only stare, amazed, as the young girl ducked and dodged, landing hits of her own with the sharp edge of her crescent weapon, as well as with the heel of her shoes. How she could fight in them, John could only wonder; he knew he wouldn't be anywhere near as graceful if he were wearing them.

It was still a bit disconcerting; the sound of sirens was now overwhelming as they parked in front, paramedics and police parading into the coffee shop. The girl was a scantily-dressed dervish, smiling the entire time; he recognized the smile of pure joy as one he had worn himself more than a few times. From the front, he could see the red domino mask she wore, as well as the flash of belly between skirt and top, almost heart-breakingly smooth and pale. She should have been at the shops, spending her parents' money, not fighting monstrous creatures in the back alley of an _avante-garde_ coffee house.

"Don't worry; Sailor V is destined to fight the monsters of the Dark Kingdom," the cat said, as if cats did this sort of thing all the time. Blue eyes blinked up at him, and John felt the sudden urge to giggle. "But you were immensely brave," the cat continued, as Sailor V put her foot into what was presumably the monster's gut and doubled it over.

"I've been told I have a tendency to walk into trouble instead of away from it, yeah," he agreed weakly, flaking a bit of dried blood off his cheek. The cat smirked at him (which was even weirder, because John was pretty sure cats didn't have proper lips), twitching his tail.

"You definitely remind me of her."

The monster was weakly flailing on the ground, two of its arms actually severed; John was reminded of an octopus, or perhaps a snake. Sailor V pointed a gloved finger at the monster, a soft glow of power gathering at the tip. "Crescent Beam!" she snapped, and a golden laser of light shot out to strike the monster, vaporizing it as it howled. A fine mist rose from the body as it disappeared, floating back into the building; a little of it came towards John, and he breathed it in without thinking.

Sailor V nodded her head as if pleased, turning back to John and held out her hand. "Hi! I'm Sailor V. I'm sorry it took so long to get here." She grabbed his hand when he didn't move, shaking it vigorously and rather clumsily. "What's your name?"

"Uh...John. John Watson. Doctor John Watson." He felt just a little bit better, though his headache wasn't going away; whatever the monster had done was reversed with its death apparently. "Does this mean everyone else will be fine? They're not dead?"

She beamed at him, shaking his hand again before releasing it. He felt like a giant, towering over her, she was so tiny in comparison. "Nope! Not dead at all. They were just drained of their energy, that's all." She bent to pick up her cat, slinging him around her neck like a stole. "Thank you for trying your best."

"Well, like I told your cat, I tend to run towards trouble instead of away. It's automatic; they don't train cowards in the RAMC." He rubbed his shoulder, finally feeling the bone-deep ache of misuse after being battered around.

The cat tilted his head at John, paw tapping Sailor V's shoulder. "You're calm for someone who was just attacked by a nightmare. Not to mention I'm a talking cat."

John just sighed. "Probably the adrenaline. And the fact I'm just too tired to care."

Sailor V leaned up to kiss his cheek. "You'll be fine. See you!" And she was gone, leaping up to the fire escape and away like a golden streak. John sighed again, gathering himself to go inside and give his testimony to the police.  


* * *

  


John did indeed see her again.

Until the day of the explosion, Sailor V became a patient, and then, Minako became a friend. Once she figured out where he lived, he got used to her appearing late at night, wanting him to treat her scrapes and bruises. He realized fairly quickly that she was using it as an excuse to sit and talk to him, as she let it slip one night that she actually had an accelerated healing system.

He didn't mind; as much as she desired his company, he needed hers. She sipped at tea and told him stories about a fantastical previous life on the moon, her life in Japan, and her current time in London. Once she was comfortable enough to transform, her English became charmingly accented and slightly broken in spots. She was learning it, she explained, from both him and Katarina, an Interpol officer she had befriended in much the same way she had John.

Artemis was increasingly loquacious the longer she visited; John finally learned his name the day Sailor V crawled through his window with a rip in her skirt and a large cut across her forehead. He was an agitated mess of fur and claws until John finished bandaging her head and tucked her in his bed to nap; then, as if in payment, he had finally told John his name. He was also the source of many humorous anecdotes of Minako tripping her way through London (apparently as clumsy as a newborn when she wasn't Sailor V), as well as stories of their past lives. Apparently the Moon had been a crowded place.

It all came to an end one day: an unremarkable day, similar to the one when he and Sailor V had met. He read about the explosion in the papers later, written off as a "gas leak" that no one could explain. She told him, as he bandaged her arm, that it had been another monster -- a _youma_ as he had told him one night, sitting on his bed as Minako -- and it had caused the fire trying to trap her. Instead, the entire building had gone up, the explosion going off as the gas main caught, and she had been thrown through a window into the alley.

After he had wrapped her arm, she had stared at the rug for a long minute. "I'm going back home." Her feet barely touched the floor as she sat on his bed; one high heeled shoe was scuffed, dangling off the tips of her toes. He paused in putting the gauze away, turning to look at her. Artemis was studiously not looking at either of them.

"What happened, Minako?" John came back to kneel slowly in front of her, wincing at his leg. He almost bit his tongue as she flung herself at him, knocking him over, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing like a python. After a second, she began crying; great hiccuping sobs that shook her entire body.

He remembered that night later, seeing Sherlock standing in the door to 221B's living room. He aided Minako in keeping her survival a secret, hiding the truth from Katarina and Alan when they came to his door, their expressions a match in misery. A year and some change later, he was the one who was miserable after watching Sherlock fake his death. In his case, however, his misery ended (though not before he had pushed Sherlock out the door, locked it, and yelled at him through it), while Katarina and Alan still thought Minako was dead. He wondered if the young blonde ever felt guilty about it.

He hadn't thought of her much after she left; it had not been too long after that when he went for a walk in the park, running into Mike Stamford. Once he moved into 221B, his life was occupied by the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes; he had no time to devote to thinking about a young girl who wielded magic when he lived with a man who couldn't even remember the Solar System.  


* * *

  
After Sherlock's return, the colour returned to John's world. It didn't hurt that Sherlock wasn't the sexless creature John had assumed, and the two of them fell into bed not a month after he had returned. The first time was awkward; the second time was better; the third time, early in the morning and an hour away from his shift at the clinic, was explosive.

So when Sherlock announced a case that was taking them to Tokyo, John didn't even think of Minako. As they hunted down the man who had kidnapped a billionaire's daughter for an underground sex ring, he still didn't think of her. He was too busy keeping Sherlock on his feet, as the man still insisted on running himself ragged, despite having obviously nearly killed himself doing the same whilst chasing down Moriarty's network.

It was the arrival of Lestrade that kicked it all off. He was an unexpected visitor the morning both men straggled back to the hotel, flush with victory at having caught their criminal and rescuing the girl. It was almost textbook: win case, fuck like rabbits in heat. At home, John had begun to lay in food once cases came near the end, knowing they'd be homebound for at least a few days as Sherlock wore out his energy on John's willing body. Seeing Lestrade in the foyer dashed all of those plans to hell, and Sherlock was immediately on the defensive.

"Really? Can my brother really not trust me to leave the country for a few days?" Lestrade only rolled his eyes.

"As much as you love to blame him, it's not his fault. I'm on vacation."

"Heard that one before," John commented mildly, a finger looped into Sherlock's waistband to keep him from advancing on the detective inspector.

Lestrade hefted his suitcase, glaring at them. "The only thing Mycroft has to do with this is telling me where you two were staying. I, truthfully, am here on vacation, and it's all because my daughter is excellent at guilt trips."

"Guilt...of course. Her birthday is coming up, isn't it?" John could only marvel at the man; he couldn't remember the Solar System, but he remembered Lestrade's daughter's birthday, even though he hadn't met her and likely never would, as Lestrade's ex-wife lived in Exeter. "I presume she wants something particular you can only find in Tokyo."

"Oh, yeah. Only a bunch of signatures from some band she loves with all her heart, and daddy, it's their very last tour ever, and can you pretty please please please get them to sign my CD for me?" The older man sighed, scratching his eyebrow. "Some color-coded trio called The Three Lights, God only knows how she found out about them."

"The internet, I reckon; you know how kids are in the modern age." John thought fondly of his old and beat-up record player, and the precise sound it made as he set the needle on to play. "On iTunes or something like it."

Sherlock made a noise in his throat that John had mentally labelled his "Stop Ignoring Me" sound; it was not unlike a jet engine rumbling, but a bit phlegmier. "More than likely. Does this mean we'll have to put up with you until we leave in the morning?"

"Sherlock, stop being a dick," John growled, pinching his side. Lestrade, however, was used to it, and simply smirked.

"Looks like it. Even have the room next to yours," he said, waving his key card at them. "Try not to make too much noise, yeah?"

Apparently having worked with Sherlock for so long didn't teach Lestrade not to make such a comment; it was like flashing a red cape at a bull. To John's benefit and Lestrade's misery, Sherlock was nothing if not thorough in making sure John was consistent in crying his name, in several degrees of volume. If Lestrade slept at all, it would have been a miracle.

 

John wasn't sure what got into them the next morning; it might have been Sherlock's surliness at their flight being cancelled thanks to a bomb threat; it may have been John's nagging guilt at keeping Lestrade up all night with loud and obnoxious sex. Whatever the case, it found them both waiting with Lestrade at the Tokyo Dome. Since none of them had tickets (the show had been sold out since forever), Lestrade had simply planned to wait for them to leave and intercept them with the CD. He had also shot down Sherlock's offer to pick the back door lock, threatening to handcuff him to the closest police box if necessary. Sherlock sulked rather spectacularly.

To top it all off, it was raining the entire damn English Channel on their heads. Huddling under the edge of the roof, John once again cursed Sherlock's almost pathalogical hatred of umbrellas, Mycroft's constant carrying of said umbrellas, and the lack of any to keep his head dry.

"To hell with it," Lestrade finally snapped, shaking his head like an irritated dog. "Pick the damn lock, Sherlock, so we can get inside and dry off."

"With pleasure."

Five minutes later, they were inside, dripping water across the floor. The hallway was surprisingly deserted. When they turned the corner towards the stage, they found out why: several workers had fallen where they had been standing. Small gems floated above their bodies, slowly turning black as the three of them watched. John felt his stomach drop.

"We need to get the hell out of here, now."

"But something's wrong with them--" Lestrade began to protest, only to stop as John held up his hand.

"I know. But we can't fix this. Look."

They slowly began to retreat as the gems turned entirely black. John could feel Sherlock vibrating next to him at the sight of a crime scene, only to still entirely as the change happened, lifting the victim's bodies clear off the floor with the force of the transformation.

He heard Lestrade cursing in his ear. Sherlock was silent. All three of them watched as people in front of them changed into parodies of themselves in sailor suits, wide-eyed and colourful and clownish. "Ehh ehh ehh!" one of the girls laughed, wriggling her fingers at them. Next to her, another girl was eyeing them hungrily, swinging what looked like a microphone on the end of a cord.

"I'm hallucinating. Dear God, tell me I'm hallucinating," Lestrade whispered. Sherlock was still maddeningly silent next to John, barely breathing.

"If I didn't hallucinate the first time, you're not hallucinating either," John whispered back, watching the microphone swing.

The ground shook under their feet; John felt his molars vibrate. He grabbed onto Sherlock's sleeve, preparing to drag the man back through the door if need be, when all four stage hands flew backwards into the wall, blasted by a ball of light. But they didn't change; they simply fell to the floor, eyes rolling in their heads, howling like banshees. It was nothing like the first time John had seen such an attack.

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade swore again.

A rather leggy blonde stepped out of the hallway across from them. Her uniform wasn't quite the same as Sailor V's -- a blue skirt, tighter bodice, and slightly more sensible boots -- but it was obviously of the same general theme. She glared at them as if they had personally pissed on her daisies, gesturing imperiously at them. "Get far away from here. Once the battle starts, we won't bother to defend you."

"Then don't." John felt curiously lightheaded; it was obvious this girl wasn't as friendly as Minako, could kick his ass six ways to Sunday, and clearly wanted them gone. But Something was happening. Something big. "You're like Minako, aren't you? A sailor soldier."

You could have heard a pin drop. Even the grotesque parodies on the floor had stilled.

The girl narrowed her eyes at him -- a stormy blue not dissimilar to Sherlock's -- and clenched her fist. "How do you know about Minako?"

"Uranus. We don't have time for this." Another girl stepped out of the hallway, followed by another dressed in flowing red robes. The one who had spoken was also in a sailor suit, with hair the colour of the ocean, a deep emerald green that looked entirely natural.

"I think we do, if he's speaking so carelessly about her." The blonde rather carelessly stepped around the fallen parodies, ignoring them entirely. "How do you know about Minako? I won't tolerate a lie."

"John, what the hell is going on?" Lestrade had a tight grip on his arm, thankfully not his left, and was resisting his attempts to get free. "You know something about this, don't you?"

Sherlock was a warm presence at his back; he glanced back to see him staring at him with confusion and curiousity in his eyes. It wasn't often he managed to confuse Sherlock anymore, and John grinned despite himself before turning back to face Uranus.

"I met Minako in London a few years ago. She told me about her mission, said there would be more of you lot soon." He finally shook off Lestrade's arm, folding his own across his chest as he stared the blonde down; she was not quite as petite as Minako, and it was a bit disconcerting to be almost eye to eye.

She finally looked away, towards the other soldier. "Minako was never very subtle, was she? Ara, Mina," the other sighed, tossing her head. "And so, you know about us. But you can't help. You're not prepared to fight the enemies we have, and this is our mission besides."

"I know that. Hell, I still have the scar on my head to prove it." John tapped his temple, and the faint line still there, visible only in close-up. "But can we help evacuate people? Is this going to be like before, with energy vampire things sucking people dry?"

Uranus grunted, glancing down the hallway and towards the stage. There was a quiet hum in the background John became aware of; the sound of the dome opening. The rain must have stopped. "Yes. Pull the fire alarms. You need to get the people away...we can't have them caught in the crossfire. You see what happens." She glanced back at the parodies, where the woman in the red dress knelt, touching one of their faces.

"They become twisted copies of you," Sherlock said flatly, and John grimaced at the realization. "Do they have abilities to similar to you as well?" He sounded remarkably calm, but John felt the minute tremor beginning to shake him; for a man who lived by using his own senses to deduce the world, this had to be a shock. Magic simply didn't exist in Sherlock Holmes' world; John could only remember his terror at Baskerville, the fact he felt betrayed by his own eyes.

Uranus nodded sharply, glancing back at the other soldier. "They do. They're dangerous. They're mockeries of us, with faulty star seeds. Only Eternal Sailor Moon can fix them without killing them."

"You may want to hurry," the other soldier said, setting a hand on Uranus's arm. "This is the work of the sailor soldier who works for Galaxia. Tin Nyanko. She won't hesitate to attack you, or anyone. And then you'll become like them."

"We'll try to avoid it." John couldn't help but feel elated as he glanced aside, looking for another door; Lestrade and Sherlock were silent as they followed him down a different hallway, away from the trio. His life with Sherlock was exciting, the balm to the numbing boredom that had permeated his life without the mad detective dragging him around, but this was an entirely different sort of fun. This was the high-wire act, knowing that you could fall at any time, and seeing the drop beneath your feet; they were the monsters, and he was only human.

They could hear the screams as they got closer to the arena. Sherlock pulled the first fire alarm in reach, which automatically opened all the doors to the seating levels; almost immediately, people were running towards them, trying to get out.

"This is a mob scene, John," Lestrade yelled over the din. "What else can we do?" John shook his head as they were flattened against the wall, nearly trampled in the stampede.

"Stay out of the way, and make sure everyone gets out!"

"You make it sound so easy."

John grinned; he felt Sherlock's hand curl around his and squeeze before letting go. "What do you think I did in Afghanistan? Picnic?"

"I think you're both crazier than bed bugs, and I don't know why I'm not running away with the rest of them." The rush of human bodies had slowed to a trickle; Lestrade leaned out to look through the doors. "We've got bodies on the ground, they look like they were crushed."

Arcs of light were flying through the air as John stepped out into the open. He dropped immediately as one bolt of light nearly took off his head; he heard Lestrade curse again behind him, Sherlock's quiet murmur of disparagement. The body beneath him was unconscious, but breathing; he gestured back at the two to come forward and pick her up, lifting her off the body of another young girl.

It was almost as noisy as the concert as the battle continued, or, as John realized at a quick glance, the standoff: the girl in the red dress was defending herself against another in a golden sailor soldier's uniform. Surrounding them he could see what looked to be a veritable rainbow of uniforms.

"I suspect it isn't going well for our side," he heard Sherlock mutter in his ear as Lestrade carried away a young boy. "That one woman is clearly more powerful than the rest."

"Yeah, I'm getting that impression."

"Maybe we should make a tactical retreat," suggested Lestrade as he knelt next to John, looking grim and clearly exhausted. John shook his head.

"Until the paramedics get here, we're the only ones who can help the injured. And I bet that golden soldier isn't letting anyone in."

There was a scream, absolutely gut-wrenching. All of three of them shot up at the sound, staring down at the fight, to see he girl in the dress on the ground, and the golden soldier holding a glittering gem. "I think our side is losing," Lestrade remarked, ducking his head back down.

"Astute observation as usual, Lestrade; clearly New Scotland Yard is blessed to have your immense skills at its disposal," Sherlock snarked back, sliding down as well.

John couldn't hear the particulars of the argument below, but he could see the desperation in everyone's movements; whoever the golden soldier was, she was clearly stronger than the rest of them. He could make out a long-haired blonde in an orange uniform that had to be Minako; she stood close to another blonde, who had tied her hair up into pigtails. She was also the most flamboyant of the bunch (which was definitely remarkable), considering she not only had a more colourful uniform, she had big damn white wings on her back. John was going to hazard a guess that she was their leader; if nothing else, the big gaudy stick she held out in front of her was also a clue.

"What's happening? I thought we were supposed to be checking to see if anyone else was hurt?" Lestrade was eyeballing him from the floor, shifting uncomfortably.

"I have a feeling that if the soldier with the wings doesn't win, it won't matter." He flinched at the sudden bright flash of light as she shouted something lost to the distance, lifting the stick above her head. He felt Sherlock sit up next to him, watching as the bright light slammed into the golden soldier....and did nothing. All she did was laugh at them, before disappearing.

"John. I feel that it's not unreasonable of me to demand an explanation for all of this." Sherlock sounded annoyed instead of frightened, which was a bit of a relief. John thought he might be bailing the man out of jail after he went on a rampage about logic and impossibility (which, unfortunately, had happened once already).

"Well, there was this kingdom on the Moon...."

* * *

  


The earth had begun to shake as John led Sherlock (still arguing with him about the improbability of "a Moon Kingdom, John, do you believe _everything_ you hear?") and Lestrade down the steps towards the group of soldiers. The golden soldier had vanished, but John had a feeling she was the one causing the earthquake.

Sherlock had stopped arguing with him, and was clutching at his (good) shoulder; Lestrade was clinging to the guardrail. The world kept moving until it finally, blissfully, stopped and stilled. "I don't fancy doing that again," John huffed, despite the racing of his heart. "Not the kind of thrill I like."

"We've lost a few," Lestrade muttered; sure enough, the three in the matching black leather uniforms and long ponytails were leaving, stage left.

"They appeared to be more concerned with cowering behind that woman instead of doing anything useful anyway." The detective released John's shoulder and stood straighter, daring either one of them to comment. Neither did.

John figured it was time to quit hiding; instead, he hollered, "Minako!" and managed to hop the small fence separating them from the floor of the dome. He heard Sherlock and Lestrade following him as he walked towards the group, ignoring the glares he was receiving. He was resolutely ignoring the streaks of black lightning arcing across the sky; he figured he'd been coping well so far, why ruin it?

"Doctor-saan!" All of a sudden, he had an armful of Minako, who flung herself into his chest, squealing. "John! What are you doing here!?"

"Getting into trouble, as usual," he laughed, hugging her back. Dear God, she had grown in three years. Not much taller (if at all), but he could definitely feel the maturity that had begun to curve her hips and breasts. How depressing; she was still so young. But he was still glad to see her alive and well.

She pulled back to beam at him, and he could only mentally pray for the hearts of Tokyo's young men; she was going to be absolutely gorgeous by the time she left school. "John, I want you to meet my friends--"

"I've met two of them already," he replied dryly, eying Uranus and her companion as they glared at him. "Uranus and the one with the green hair who think they can stare me into submission."

"Oh, that's Neptune. They're dedicated to the mission, but they're a little fierce." She grabbed his hand, spinning on her heel to tug him towards the girls, only to stop in mid-spin and nearly trip as she saw Sherlock and Lestrade. "Oh!"

Lestrade coughed. "Ah, hello. Gregory Lestrade. I work with New Scotland Yard in London." He thumbed towards Sherlock, who was staring at the girls as if he'd like nothing more than to put them under a microscope. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and creepy bastard. Don't mind him, he thinks you're all impossible."

"Magic doesn't make sense. It clearly must exist, if the last half hour has been any indication." Sherlock was beginning to loom over John and Minako; John reached back to pinch his stomach, eliciting a yelp and a giggle from Minako. "John!"

"I'm his long-suffering blogger and live-in maid. Frankly, I'm underpaid." John sighed, patting Minako's shoulder. "So, I see you've upgraded. New costume; very nice. Still horribly slutty for a girl your age."

"It's a bit less than I would wear," one of the girls agreed, tugging at the hem of her skirt. More blue hair; John's eyes were beginning to cross. Why the ridiculous hair colours should bother him more than the magic they slung around, he didn't know.

Minako waved the comment off, then waved at her friends. "They're my comrades from the past life, the ones I told you I was looking for. Moon, Mercury, Mars, Jupiter, Uranus, and Neptune." She pointed at each one, all of them nodding (or, in Mercury's case, actually bowing) in turn. Except for Neptune and Uranus, of course; John suspected if they stopped frowning, their faces might fall apart. Clearly some people lived to find something to be upset about. "I'm no longer Sailor V; I'm properly Venus now."

"Isn't there one missing?"

"Ano....there's two, actually."

"There's only eight planets." Sherlock looked disgruntled again, even more so when Lestrade turned to stare at him incredulously. "John made me sit through a blasted documentary about it. Pluto is no longer a proper planet, but a dwarf planet." Lestrade choked back a laugh.

"You mean, you didn't delete it right away?"

Sherlock folded his arms, glaring at the detective inspector. "John felt it was important."

Minako -- Venus -- clapped her hands with glee. "That's so sweet! John, I'm glad you found happiness. You were so sad before."

"Yeah, well, you met me at a pretty low point in my life," John admitted. "But it's gotten better. So much better."

"Interesting place to have that revelation, John," Lestrade commented. John just laughed, because it was unfortunately true. If the sky was any indication, they could die tonight, but at least he'd be dying with Sherlock instead of watching him fall, alone.

"May as well have it here as anywhere." Sherlock had taken his hand again and squeezed it, as Venus smiled; she then threw her arms around both of them, and John was gratified to hear Sherlock's grunt of surprise.

"Don't worry. There's always hope for a beautiful morning to come. Galaxia won't have this planet."

"Well, if the same girl who faced down a demonic Shiva and saved my arse tells me so, I have to believe her."

Several hours later, as John led Sherlock and Lestrade over the wreckage of Ginga TV, he had to admit that the sunrise was indeed beautiful. And there was probably a soldier in a skimpy little uniform and high heels responsible for _that_ , too.


End file.
